SELF-PORTRAIT OF POET WITH PUP
My little pup tucked in beside my hip,
Nestled in my half-cocked easy chair,
Breathes softly while I take another sip
Of my warm mocha drink and vaguely stare
Above my high-piled books into the yard,
For all of this provides the ambiance
That brings forth verse from an aspiring bard,
As out of teeming chaos he makes sense.
The light’s now brightening and the birds
Sing their aubades, while planes descending toward
Orlando International bring words
To mind as squabbling squirrels attempt to lord
It over rivals or scare off a cat,
By which time I am done, and that is that.